Baked Potato
by Aris24
Summary: Poor Martin can make even a baked potato sound like the most wonderful food ever discovered or eaten. Fortunately for him, he is free to treat himself thanks to a lovely tipper. More of a comfort fic, but then Martin's situation is a bit sad by itself. Warning: Shameless enjoyment of a potato. And some fullish tummy rubbing. Hunger kink, food kink, a bit of belly kink, etc.


Pasta. That was what Martin's dinners had consisted of for the past week. The same box of penne pasta boiled last Sunday and spread out into smaller and smaller portions as the week had rolled on. There wasn't even any sauce on the pasta, just a bit of salt and the tiniest sliver of butter he could take. He had been worried about that making it to the end of the week too, so his pasta had been dry and sticky last night.

Tonight, however, would be different. The van job he had taken this morning proved to be his stomach's saving grace as the kind old lady he was helping turned out to be an excellent tipper. Something about having an appreciation for gingers due to a long lost husband. Martin had never thought the day would come when he would count himself lucky for the color of his hair. It had always been just one more thing that made him so naturally awkward.

Martin made his way up to the door of the house he was sharing, a bit relieved to find the door locked which meant everyone else was either out or sleeping. He let himself in, clutching the tiny bag of shopping tightly in his other fist. He shut and locked the door behind him before swiftly climbing the stairs up to his attic. He set his precious bag down on his bed and began to rustle through it, taking out a new stick of butter, a box of cheap tea, and last but not least a beautiful russet potato in its own clear bag. Yes, he would be treating himself tonight! He had another van job tomorrow that should take care of the rest of his grocery needs until the next customer called. The little bonus from today was enough to allow the pilot in the attic the chance to splurge a bit on top of paying his rent. And he simply couldn't abide the thought of having pasta for the sixth consecutive night.

Martin got a plate from off the drying rack and set it next to the sink along with a mug and a fork. He took his chipped little kettle and filled it with water before placing it onto the small electric stove top that had been a Christmas gift from his mum. Then he turned on the faucet again and set to work washing his potato's thick grubby skin. It had a nice weight in his palm, a satisfying rasp against his fingers that told the skin would become slightly crisp as it baked. Well, it would if he had an oven anyway.

Spud clean, he placed it on the waiting plate and pierced it with a jab of his fork. He carried it over to his microwave and turned the knob so that it could begin cooking. His tongue snuck out to moisten his lips slightly as he watched it rotate in the odd yellow light. The microwave pinged and he turned the knob again before going to see how his tea was getting on. His stomach growled plaintively as the smell of warming potato permeated his little attic. He slid a hand down to it absently, caressing it through his baggy shirt as he popped a teabag into his mug and poured hot water over it. He allowed it to steep, then tossed out the bag and took a careful sip. Somehow the hot liquid only served to make his stomach's grumbles more frequent as he waited.

Then the microwave gave off its alarm again and Martin practically dove over to retrieve his food. His hands were trembling slightly as he pulled the plate out carefully and set it on his bed. The potato hissed as warm steam slipped out from under the skin, causing it to slacken ever so slightly and wrinkle, but oh was it beautiful! Martin fetched his tea and set it on his bedside table. He twirled his fork in his fingers as he gazed down at his dinner, just taking a moment to imagine what it would taste and feel like as he ate it. His stomach grumbled impatiently, but he just clapped a hand to it as he took time to savor.

At last, Martin could deny himself no longer. He turned his fork around and slit the potato down the middle with the flat of it, then another little slice crosswise. He felt his mouth water as tendrils of steam rose up and pale yellow flesh peeked out from under the skin. He gripped it carefully and gave the potato a quick little squeeze so that it presented its mealy innards to him. He licked his lips then pulled over the new stick of butter and sliced off a sliver to lay on top of the soft, fluffy mound of exposed potato. He had scarcely laid it on before it began to droop and turn to delicious yellow grease that ventured out in trickles to explore the expanse of hot white starch. Martin's lips had parted. He wanted to lick it up, taste the salty fat that would coat his tongue. But no, he should wait. He cut another sliver of butter, more generous this time, and set it on the other side. He watched as it too melted into the potato. He heard an odd noise and realized he had let out a soft sigh. He took a gulp of his tea and went to fetch salt and pepper, shaking each over his dinner until it was speckled in black and dissolving crystals of salt.

Then he picked up his fork, inhaled the sweet aroma, dug out a beautiful bite, and ate. Martin might have moaned this time, but he didn't especially care. He closed his eyes in bliss to just concentrate on the sensations on his tongue. Hot, buttery, soft and substantial. He worked the bite into a mash with slow movements of his tongue, then swallowed it down. He imagined he could feel it drop into his stomach. Martin's eyes flew open and he quickly scooped up a second bite, trying to go slowly, but his hunger was far too strong. He shoveled a huge bite into his mouth, panting slightly at the heat, but making short work of the mass of potato and swallowing that down as well. He hummed as it hit his belly and went back for more, again and again, seeking out every last bit of flesh from within the potato's beautifully brown skin before picking it up in careful finger. He ate that too, in reverent bites punctuated by desperate little noises that made Martin feel quite glad that he was alone.

But then, it was gone and Martin's plate was clean. He sucked the last traces of flavor from his fork and swiped his fingers around the dish to suck up melted butter, salt, and pepper that may have escaped. He let out a soft sigh and reached for his tea, gulping it down as quickly as he could. His stomach felt better now. Not full exactly but like it had something substantial sitting in it. Warm and a bit sloshy from the tea. He ran a hand over it as he stood and took his plate and cup back to the sink. He decided he could afford to treat himself a bit more and refilled his cup with hot water for a second cup.

He leaned back against the headboard of his bed and sat drinking it as he relaxed and thought about the job tomorrow. His hand lazily rubbed over his stomach, rucking up the shirt a bit to reveal prominent hip bones poking out over his trousers. Too thin, perhaps, but for now he felt pretty good actually. He drank down his second cup, feeling the warm liquid settle more heavily in his stomach, stretching it out just a bit and making him feel fuller than he was. He sighed and set the mug on his side table, then wriggled until he was lying flat on his back. He moved his hands slowly up and down over his stomach, feeling the warmth from his little treat. He closed his eyes and imagined that he had eaten a much bigger meal, a proper dinner with a bit of chicken or steak along with that lovely baked potato. A bit of veg maybe? He smiled gently and patted his belly before giving in to the warmth and lazily drifting off for a post meal kip.


End file.
